


Listen To My Pulse

by cat_warrior624



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Brotherly Love, Doctor AU, Doctors, Fluff, Gender-fluid Pidge, M/M, Medical Procedures, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 06:18:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13161036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cat_warrior624/pseuds/cat_warrior624
Summary: ar·rhyth·mi·a(āˈriT͟Hmēə,əˈriT͟Hmēə/)nounMEDICINEa condition in which the heart beats with an irregular or abnormal rhythm.





	Listen To My Pulse

Light jazz pervaded the dimly lit bar, audible in even the corner farthest from the old, beat-up juke-box. It was rather packed, as the successful place always was. The owner, a rather preppy man, wanted to say it was because of their exotic and diverse menu and the obvious class of the place, but he was a long-time standing sponsor, and member, of one of those "Brutal Honesty" groups and refused to ignore the signs.

The _Jarre_ was conveniently built a hop, skip and a jump from a fairly busy hospital, the _Golion_. Which mean stressed patients and their equally stressed-out family needed a little liquid courage, yes, but what really made his business boom, to his surprise, was the _doctors_.

Coran wasn't really in a position to talk, actually owning the bar, but he would think that the ones who knew the all the mind-numbing and overall disgusting facts about the diseases and accidents caused by the liver-gnawing alcohol would stay at least ten feet away. Or at least pace themselves.

No.

The frazzled and sleep-deprived adults practically clawed for a drink. And Coran wasn't one to turn away business, save for safety-endangering situations, even if one of his regulars would have deep early-morning regrets.

*******

The dark-haired man twitched as his taxi rode down a large, busy street. He glanced at his small, black waterproof wristwatch, drumming his slender fingers on his knee in the male's usual impatient manner. 7:40 PM.

Not even a minute had passed since he has last checked.

He groaned, fixing his dark red satin tie which he knew was already in tight, perfect knot. The same way he knew his hair had been combed and gelled evenly, not a strand out of place, his dark gray pinstripe suit wrinkle-free, and his laces tied in neatly: he hadn't stopped fidgeting with it the entire ride. Much to his chatty-cabbie driver's annoyance.

Keith never understood how some people seemed to have a never-ending supply of questions for a practical stranger. When would the pot-bellied middle-aged man whose wrinkled clothes and pungent smell suggested he never left the cab ever need to know his grandfather's favorite color?

Not wanting to seem rude, he answered the barrage quietly, probably coming out clipped and stiff, but he couldn't particularly find it in him to care once passing whether or not he like peanuts.

Sighing, he settled in for a long, tedious ride of doing one of his least favorite things: socializing.

*******

Once the dinged mustard-yellow cab that was littered with candy wrappers and various waste slowly pulled up to its destination, Keith shot out of the vehicle as if an otter was nipping at his heels. After snatching his rolling suitcase from the trunk, he slammed it close to have his heart decide to skip a beat.

The cab-driver - Keith thought his name might have started with an 'S' - was a foot away with what might have seemed to be an endearing and warm smile on someone else, but it reminded Keith of the ending of Psycho, Norman Bate's hair-raising smile specifically. Chills ran up his spine.

After a staring match that seemed to last since before the Siege of Karlštejn, or Karlstein, - Keith thought his body would shrivel up and die to be catapulted over one of the castle's walls - he asked quietly, "Umm. . . Do you need anything else?"

The grin widened.

"Oh, such a gentleman. Come here, son." He widened his arms to give his passenger a bone-crushing hug. The said passager's mind scrambled for a way to escape it. Faint? Fake a heart attack? Panic attack?

He soon realized that anything other than obliging to the stranger's request would be rude enough to make his father, a true southern gentleman who raised a polite son, turn over in his grave. Keith would have to suck it up and deal.

Sighing inaudibly, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around his temporary driver awkwardly, wanting to be anywhere but there. Large slabs of arms trapped him in an uncomfortably warm and smelly embrace, clutching him like he was about to throw him over a tall wall.

Afterwards, Keith staggered away, slightly rattled by the confining and prolonged squeeze with the peculiar adult - who seemed to be smiling so largely, he thought his face might bust. It looked painful.

The driver pivoted on his heel, wobbling dangerously, and climbed into his cab, peeling away to disappear into the hectic city's night traffic. Within a few seconds, he would be a few lanes over, honking, screaming, and cursing the other vehicles in his way, kind facade washed away by road rage.

Not that the startled boy named Keith Kogane would know that of course.

He blinked. Then sighed at the crazy city folk he expected, being from a small town in the South himself. He rolled his suitcase into a dingy bar that had a soft, yet terrible, jazz song playing through a tall, and rather old, radio.

It reminded him of an old black-and-white picture he had found whilst scrummaging through his working father's closet.

He was looking for his legos - having been taken away after Mr. Kogane stepping on one too many misplaced blocks - when his roaming hands bumped against a box, knocking it over with a _bang!_ and letting a plethora of books escape.

He had hurriedly packed everything up again before his father could return - him having a sixth sense of knowing Keith got into trouble - when the photograph slipped out from a small red notebook, fluttering to the floor.

It showed a dashing young man with tousled brown hair in a baggy suit and wild chocolate-brown eyes that seemed to dance in the light. His arm was wrapped around a female about his age that seemed to glow with confidence. Midnight black hair was tied in a long braid reaching her slight hips and perfectly cut bangs. She was clad in a deep purple sequined outfit, almost like a circus performer and stood straight-laced, looking like royalty.

But the small pub reminded him of the old memory in a different way.

Outdated. Utterly outdated.

Even Keith, a history buff, couldn't deny how old-timey and grandpa-ish this place was. It was like an unwanted teleportation device. 

Dinged-up leather couches stretched along the right wall, twisting to match the awkward cutouts and poles of the structure. Large barrels supported the copper tables, most likely containing hundreds of pennies glued together, sandwiched together by two greasy panes of glass. Dead ahead, a dark heavy door seemed displeased that a bright blue restroom sign dared to be hung on it, stealing away from the stifling atmosphere. To the right of the grumpy door, a large, elaborate fireplace, that would normally steal the spotlight, attracting the most attention, seemed squished between the copious amount of furniture, unable to breathe.

A flash to the left tore his attention away from the awkward area.

Behind the elaborate cork-board bar, a tall ginger frantically waved towards him, a smile covering his freckled face. His bright, fire-like hair was tied back in a rather subdued ponytail, only a small curl sticking out rebelliously, broadcasting thin, elf-like ears. A bushy, caterpillar-ish mustache seemed to devour his face. He was clad in a dark blue suit with a bright white chest accent - much like a tuxedo - and long, sophisticated gloves to match. A slightly lighter shade of blue covered his shoulders. Light gray and gold strips seemed to highlight his clothing.

"Keith Kogane?" the man questioned in a warm British accent as Keith sat on a bar stool.

Jolted, he nodded briskly. "That's me, Mr. . ."

The bartender smiled. "Ah, everyone just calls me Coran."

As if on cue, the entire bar erupted. "Coran, Coran, the gorgeous man!"

Keith jumped at the simultaneous echoing voices of the drunk, letting out a small, "Oh."

"Ignore them." Coran rolled his eyes, his lips betraying him with an amused smile. "How was your trip?"

"Good," Keith lied, stifling a shudder as he remembered the long plane ride to the other side of the country.

Coran looked unconvinced. "Where'd you say you came from again?"

_I didn't say,_ he thought. Keith wanted to avoid the question but, nevertheless, answered politely. "The South, sir."

Coran appeared to stifle an eye-roll. "Is that so?"

He nodded, yawning into his fist. Luckily, the ginger dropped it.

"Through that door-" He pointed to the left corner where a door seemed to appear, hidden by shadows and the design of the pub "-are the stairs up to your room. Rent is due at the end of each month, no exceptions. I have a business to run, you understand."

He looked genuinely worried that Keith would be upset about the strict rules.

Keith nodded. "Yeah. Keys?"

"Right here, lad. Don't hesitate to ask for anything." The chipper man smiled, good mood restored, as he dropped the keys into Keith's outstretched hand. He gave him another smile and worked on wiping down the everlasting grease piling up on his counter. 

"Thanks, Coran," Keith threw over his shoulder as he pushed the thick door open forcefully, ignoring the cheers of "Coran, Coran, the gorgeous man" that followed him.

A cramped little staircase spiraled upwards, ominously mirroring a black pit of doom and desolation.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first story on this site, so please tell me if anything looks funky or wrong.


End file.
